


The Station

by Jubalii



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Gen, Imagery, Short One Shot, Siblings, Trains, Wayward Leaves Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26387950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: While searching for a place to rest their feet, the traveling trio find themselves at an eerily abandoned train station.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	The Station

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Wayward Leaves Zine. I had so much fun writing this, and I'm happy to have been able to contribute! I hope that you enjoy! 
> 
> You can find the zine on twitter: @waywardzine

“My toesies are getting a little weary.”

Wirt bit back a sigh, rolling his eyes to the leafy canopy. His brother had been repeating variations of the same thing for what seemed like an eternity now, and it was getting to be annoying. The worst part was that he still didn’t know what Greg meant for him to do about it. After all, they were hopelessly lost in the middle of an endless forest—not to mention being pursued by the Beast who was, in all likelihood, that deranged woodsman with the axe.

“You’ll be fine.” He tried to sound both firm and convincing, like a math teacher encouraging a roomful of exhausted students. “We have to keep going until we reach the pasture; we can’t go home until we find Adelaide, remember?”

“Oh, yeah!” Greg obediently picked up the pace, puffing as he took three steps for each of Wirt’s one. It didn’t take long for him to tire, falling behind once more with a heartfelt sigh. “George Washington’s getting tired of hopping, too. Wish you could walk, buddy-o-mine, but that’s just the way.” His tongue clicked in sympathy as he hoisted the frog in both arms. “Come on, I’ll carry you.”

“My wings are sore,” Beatrice agreed, hopping from branch to branch over their heads. “But luckily, some of us can use our surroundings,” she added pretentiously. Wirt scowled up at her, barely able to pick out her blue wings amidst the glimpses of sky visible between the leaves. 

“What does it matter?” he complained, unable to keep the clear frustration from his tone. “There’s nowhere to stop; we’re on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. So unless we wanted to take a seat in the mud—”

“What about there?” Greg nearly clotheslined him, flinging out his arm without paying any attention to his surroundings. _I shouldn’t be surprised_ , Wirt grumbled to himself. _He’s always causing trouble for me._ Righting his hat, he looked to see what Greg was pointing at.

It was a train station.

At least, that’s what it had been at one time, anyway. It was a tall, rectangular building made of wooden slats and a tin roof, with iron railings that arched high over the wide platform. In its heyday it must have been beautiful, all bright lumber and gleaming metal shingles, the platform bustling with vacationers and thick with steam from the train’s shining black chimney. 

But now it was overgrown, dusty and abandoned. The iron railings were rusted through, curled and bent as though torn apart by vengeful hands. There were gaps in the grimy tin roof, shingles hanging haphazardly off the eaves and a few lying in twisted heaps on the platform. The wooden slats were grayed with age; ivy and brambles covered them from the gutters down. It was as if the woods sought to reclaim this space as its own, swallowing the station inch by inch until it would one day be entirely lost.

Despite its decrepit state, there was nothing to suggest that the station had been purposefully abandoned. The dirty windows had panes of glass missing, but there were no boards blocking the light from entering. The door stood open, propped by a large stone. It simply seemed forgotten, fallen into disuse for no real reason other than the passage of time.

“C’mon, Wirt! Maybe we can ask the ticket man for a snack!” Greg urged.

“Ticket man?” Wirt blinked at him, shaking his head. “Greg, this place is ancient! There’s no one here, it looks condemn—” He fell silent as Greg ignored him, pushing through the thorny underbrush as he plowed a path towards the crumbling structure.

“Well… come on, Wirt.” Beatrice didn’t wait to see her order obeyed, gliding between the branches of an oak as she followed Greg towards the station.

“Guys? Guys, wait—” Left alone on the path, Wirt gave into his exasperation with some well-earned groaning. Was he the only one worried about getting home? A part of him wanted to leave the others and forge ahead. For all he knew, Adelaide could be around the next corner. Beatrice would watch after Greg, and he’d probably be happier here, exploring in the woods with his frog. Right? Right.

But… what would his mother say when he came home without his little brother? And what about the Beast? The woodsman’s words echoed in his ears. _You are the elder child! You are responsible for you and your brother’s actions!_ Sighing, he gingerly picked his way along the trail carved by Greg’s boundless enthusiasm.

“It’s mealtime,” Greg promptly declared, once he’d managed to roll onto the platform. “They’re at lunch.”

“Why do you say that?” Wirt climbed to his feet, shaking the dust from his clothes as he looked around. He’d expected the platform to be rotten, but it looked surprisingly well-tended for an abandoned station. The boards creaked beneath his shoes as he walked its length, staring down at the overgrown tracks glinting on the forest floor.

“Look!” Obediently he turned to see a dusty plate-glass window, reminiscent of the concierge booth at the movies. A sign hung there from a piece of frayed twine: AT LUNCH. WILL RETURN.

“Oh. Huh.” Wirt scratched his neck, looking around at the rusted wrought-iron benches seated along the unkempt wall. The ivy-choked windows, the thick carpet of moldering leaves over the tracks, even the lack of passengers seemed to point to the place being deserted. But…. “Maybe someone _is_ here,” he admitted. “But why would a train station be out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Maybe a town’s nearby,” Beatrice offered from the eaves.

“Hmm.” Shielding his eyes on either side, Wirt stuck his nose to the glass. He squinted, trying to find anything that suggested someone worked here full-time. There was nothing on the other side but a dusty ticket machine and a rusty old moneybox. On the wall, pinned with a single nail, was a handwritten schedule. He knocked on the window with one fist, resisting the urge to call out.

“They’re at lunch,” Greg repeated helpfully at his elbow.

“I know that, but it doesn’t make them deaf.” Wirt knocked again, sliding his face down until his eyes were flush with the gap at the bottom of the window. Greg meandered along the building, smacking at loose ivy as he passed.

“Don’t do that!” Wirt called after him, still trying to see under the window. “It might be poison or… whatever.” Thoroughly annoyed, he returned to banging on the window at intervals that seemed correct.

“Maybe you should sit down,” Beatrice said, fluttering down to perch on the back of a bench. “Rest your legs.” His calves agreed with her, a deep-seated ache reminding him of just how far they’d walked today.

“I don’t want to sit,” he complained, partly from spite. Despite her beady bird eyes, Beatrice still managed to glare at him; sighing, he pulled the hat from his head and trudged to take a seat on the nearest bench, brushing away dead strands of ivy before spreading his cape to keep the rusty grime off his trousers.

“Thought you didn’t want to sit,” Beatrice snarked. When he didn’t offer a scathing retort, she huffed and began to preen her feathers. _I don’t,_ he thought, grumbling to himself. It was better than grumbling aloud, since he knew his feathered companion wouldn’t bother with a response. It didn’t give him the same satisfaction he craved, but it also meant he’d find a minute’s respite from her near-constant mocking. 

The sun was warm on his shirt, and as he relaxed against the bench he found that the knots in his shoulders were beginning to unravel. He leaned his head against the wall, no longer caring about whether or not the ivy was poisoned as his eyes closed. A woodlark was singing in the forest, a pertinent _tweet-deet-deet_ ; he faintly wished that Beatrice would sound as nice when she spoke. It might make her sarcasm a little more palpable. He hovered in a shady, shimmering place between dozing and true sleep for what felt like hours, floating on a sea of disjointed thoughts.

That’s when he heard the whistle.

The station seemed far away, but the piercing, haunting sound was enough to drag him back to reality. Sluggishly he rubbed his eyelids, looking around for the source of the noise. Beatrice lifted her head from her wing and looked at him expectantly.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“The whistle, the train whistle.” There was something important about that sound; it called to him from the place he’d left behind. What was it that seemed so familiar?

“You were sleeping, Wirt.” He thought she might be rolling her eyes at him. “You dreamt you heard something.”

“N-no, I—” What _was_ it? He could feel his limbs cloaked in the chilly autumn night, darkness alternating with periodic flashes of color and a voice shouting, telling him to come back, _come back_ …. “Greg.”

“Huh?”

“W-where’s Greg?” As annoying as he was, Greg was the constant, the one link he had to what he knew as _home_. Wirt swayed on the bench, temporarily blindsided by a mental flash, the passing ghost of a memory. Greg. Greg with the frog. Greg with the frog, teapot on his head, an elephant trunk outlined in a white light as the whistle—

“ _Greg_!” He leapt to his feet, tripping over his untied shoelaces as he stumbled down the platform. “Greg?! Greg!” There was a sinking feeling in his stomach, a cold chill creeping like water over his wrists and ankles, slowing him down as he fought his way towards the forest where Greg had vanished, worried that—

“Wirt! Is the ticket man back?” His brother’s head popped up at the edge of the platform, round eyes gazing innocently at him. His staggering run slowed to a stop. The fear melted, wilting away between blinks until there was nothing left beyond a small, puzzling notion that things weren’t quite right. _Of course they’re not,_ he chided himself. _We’re still lost._

“Uh, no. No, he’s not.” He rubbed the back of his head, scratching ivy leaves from his tangled locks before shoving the hat back onto his skull. “But we probably shouldn’t wait any longer,” he chuckled nervously. “That woodsman’s still out there, and the Beast and… we really should be trying to find Adelaide.”

“Right-o!” Greg snatched up the frog before it could hop away, offering a mock salute. “To Adelaide’s house!” he announced, marching in place. “This calls for the Adelaide song!”

“No, no! Not that again!” Beatrice circled overhead, wings flapping irritably. “Anything but that song!”

“O-o-o-h, we’re going to the—”

“ _Wirt_!”

He stood on the platform, watching from above as Greg crossed the tracks. After a moment he squatted on the edge of the platform, gauging the jump and ignoring Beatrice’s derisive snort when he didn’t stick the landing. The wind stirred the treetops, whistling in the old station and rattling the dusty window. A lonesome whistle echoed in the far distance; it might have been the wind, or a ghost, or his mind playing tricks on him. Shivering, he tucked the cape around his arms and hurried after the others, humming the chorus to Greg’s admittedly catchy song as the three of them headed towards the Unknown. 


End file.
